


(heaven is) a place on earth

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Character Study, Cognitive Dissonance, Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, If Crowley is a Pine Tree than Aziraphale is a River in Egypt, M/M, Repression, Teaspoon of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 10:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21456640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: He tried to remind himself that he shouldn't call it a home. It was a shop, a place of business,a base of operations. Not a home. Homes were forhumans, who lived here on Earth, and despite all the long centuries he'd spent on this planet, he was, after all, here to work. He shouldn't get attached.(In which Aziraphale gathers books and makes a home, while refusing to admit to himself that's what he's doing.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 132
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Genuary 2021





	(heaven is) a place on earth

It took him a long time to realize what it was that he'd been doing.

Or- no. Perhaps he'd always known what he was doing, but simply couldn't admit it, even to himself.

It started on one of his rare assignments to China, in the 13th century, when he heard the scholars there discussing a new text on astronomy, recently acquired from Persia. Curious, he went to see the document himself. It was a beautiful work, if not quite his usual subject matter, but he found himself thinking, as he perused its contents, that Crowley would rather like it.

The demon had confessed once, during a viewing of a truly spectacular comet in 837 AD, when they were both rather more drunk than they should be, that he had made some of the stars. He'd been quite enthusiastic about it, giving animated descriptions with sweeping gestures, invested in the topic in a way that Aziraphale had rarely seen before-- but rather thought he would enjoy seeing again.

Their Arrangement, as Crowley referred to it, was still new, and it left Aziraphale uneasy every time he thought of it. He couldn't argue about its efficiency, but, well, the whole thing was _dreadfully_ improper. His only interaction with demons _should_ be smiting them. He shouldn't be holding conversations, let alone getting friendly enough with one in particular to know his likes and dislikes. 

The problem was simply that being on Earth got rather lonely after so many centuries. There were plenty of humans around, of course, and Aziraphale did quite enjoy their company, but you couldn't really  _talk_ to them, could you. You had to be constantly cautious and restrained, lest you let slip some bit of knowledge they shouldn't have yet, or reveal something of your true nature. And even if you did get close to one, they were gone so frightfully quickly. A few decades only, or a century at most-- he delighted in the humans' creativity and inventiveness, but that wasn't the same as making a real  _connection_ with any of them.

Those few in the Host that he spoke with, on his infrequent returns to Heaven, were no better and possibly worse. Most angels had never been to Earth, or visited only briefly to deliver messages or perform small tasks. They couldn't understand his fascination with it, the few times he attempted to explain, and he quickly gave up trying.

Upper Management, of course, had no time and less patience for any such menial matters. They wanted his reports only, as brief and to the point as possible, before handing him his next assignment and waving him out the door.

No, of everyone he met, only Crowley really understood what it was like on Earth, or had any interest in hearing about it. So Aziraphale found himself purchasing a copy of the text, and tucking it carefully away in his robes for the long journey back.

* * *

It had been some time since their last meeting. They did their best not to meet too often, generally only seeing each other if they were both sent to the same location on assignment (even if that did seem to happen rather more often than it should.) But a chance encounter in the Byzantine court led to dinner and drinks, as was their habit, and as they stumbled along the beach late in the night Aziraphale at last remembered the text and showed it to Crowley. The demon was quite delighted by it, poring over the star charts and making sly comments about all the details the humans had got wrong-- _and awfully ambitious of them, isn't it, making a calendar for ten thousand years? _He snickered-- but Aziraphale could hear his genuine joy beneath the dry sarcasm, and couldn't help but feel a swell of pride and satisfaction at a gift well chosen. It was a wonderful evening, and a memory he savored for decades after. 

Perhaps it was no surprise, then, that he slowly acquired more books over the next century or so. Mostly things to satisfy his own interests: denser works, that he wouldn't be able to read through in the short time he was given to complete his assignments; but occasionally something more in Crowley's wheelhouse, that he thought might make for an interesting discussion when next they saw each other. The texts kept him occupied during long days spent traveling (going places the mortal way did take _so_ very long, and was often terribly uncomfortable) and it was worth a little extra trouble, to bring something with him to pass the time. He didn't keep most of them, but as the years passed, he did find himself holding on to a few favorites.  Material possessions might be impractical, but it did seem a shame to discard such rare, well-crafted objects. 

And if he sometimes miracled his bags to be a bit larger than they really should be, and a bit lighter than a dozen leather-bound tomes would really account for, well. No one else needed to know, did they? Just a few frivolous details in the grand scheme of things. It didn't mean anything.

And then- and  _then._ Gutenburg's press broke over Europe like a tsunami, pushing out waves and waves of written works, and for the first time in centuries Aziraphale found himself with ready access to more books to read than he could keep up with. The humans, too, seemed inspired by this new wealth, as Europe found itself afire in wave after wave of inquiry and invention in the following centuries. The Renaissance, the Reformation, the Enlightenment; new networks of commerce and trade spidered across the continent, spreading new ideas of scientific inquiry and philosophy along with material goods. Age-old systems started to change, or were torn down and built anew. The humans built vast ships and set out across the oceans, connecting populations that had long been kept apart. For better or worse, the humans were reshaping their world, faster than ever before, and Aziraphale found himself quite unable to avoid getting more involved. 

He wasn't sure whether they were really being sent on more assignments, or if it was simply that the humans were spreading out so quickly over wider and wider areas, but he found himself running into Crowley more often as well. The time between their meetings started to dwindle, from a half-century or more, to a few decades, to sometimes only a handful of years in between-- a timeframe so short as to be practically  _mortal_ . 

And though he still wouldn't admit to knowing Crowley, wouldn't call him  _friend_ in public-- privately, he knew he was really quite fond of the demon. No longer could he pretend that the time he spent with Crowley was justified because it meant the demon couldn't be out causing mischief and spreading foment-- no, if he was being honest, he knew that he simply enjoyed the demon's company. 

It was, Aziraphale reflected, as he enjoyed a sold-out performance of _Hamlet_ several weeks after his trip to Edinburgh, starting to become a real problem.

The trouble was, he was enjoying their encounters _too _much. No longer content to simply extend their discussions late into the night, he found himself planning ahead for what they might do the next time they ran into one another. Started buying vintages he thought the demon would enjoy, or noting attractions that they might visit for one of their clandestine meetings. Public places, places with plenty of crowds that they could easily get lost in, where no one could notice them lingering. (Places where humans brought their family and partners, where they courted.)

At the same time, the pile of books in whatever temporary housing he was currently occupying grew as well, to the point that it started to become something of an inconvenience.  Eventually, even a miracle or ten couldn't make his collection easier to carry with him. He wasn't required to travel as frequently as he had in centuries past, but it still happened, and every time he had to leave he worried terribly about the safety of his books.  God only knew what could happen to them if left unattended.

(Although the destruction of Alexandria and its library had grown larger in legend than the actual event itself, there were still far too many tragedies that could befall human cities, fragile, temporary things that they were. Turn your back for a few decades or a century or two, and a whole country could be gone, swallowed up or erased by conquest, fire, or plague. The whole point was to keep his collection  _safe_ , and for that it needed to stay  _with_ him. But how he could manage this, alongside Heaven's expectation to pack up and move at the slightest notice, he had no idea.)

It was Crowley who suggested a bookshop, in the end. They'd both been quite drunk, and Aziraphale suspected the demon had meant it as a joke, knowing he would never easily be parted from his collection. And yet-- Aziraphale couldn't stop turning the idea over in his mind, even after Crowley left and soft dawn light crept across the floor of his townhouse. Posing as an upstanding businessman would surely be a useful cover for his work, and London _was_ quickly becoming a hub of power and influence as England rose to dominate the world stage. Surely he could do more good if he had a... more permanent base of operations. Yes, that seemed entirely reasonable. It seemed the sort of thing Upper Management would approve of, at any rate.

(That Crowley also seemed to be based out of London these days, and that staying in the city would certainly lead to more frequent encounters, was absolutely not a factor. )

And while Heaven might not approve of him collecting material objects for his own sake, they could hardly object if it was part of his established human identity. What use was a bookshop, after all, if it was empty of books? He might even have to purchase _additional_ works. Simply to fill out the shelves properly. Certainly not because he had recently become aware of several volumes which would neatly fill out some of his incomplete sets.

The more he considered it, the more attached he became to the idea. As far as actually _selling_ books, well-- it was not as if he actually needed human money. He would simply keep prices high enough that few humans would be able to afford his wares, and discourage all but the most discerning customers. It wasn't as if plenty of _human_ establishments didn't already do the same thing. It might even help him blend in better in his role.

So it was that he set out later that afternoon with a spring in his step, prepared to start making some inquiries.

In the end it was both more and less difficult than he had anticipated. He had to establish a real human identity, which he'd hardly bothered with before. But with more complex societies came more detailed record-keeping, and the humans wanted _something_ they could put on all their papers. That was the other thing- human real estate, it turned out, involved a startling amount of paperwork. All manner of building permits and land leases and approval after approval from the relevant authorities. It wasn't nearly so byzantine as Heaven's bureaucracy, fortunately, but not for lack of trying. In the end, he may have been a bit free with his miracles simply to speed the process along.

He had to endure quite a lecture about it from Heaven, later, but for once he found their disappointment didn't cut quite as deeply as usual, so caught up was he with anticipation over his new project.

It did make things rather inconvenient when he ended up sitting in the Bastille, however-- if he ended up discorporated, the paperwork to get another body would take _ages_, and who knew if all his careful preparations for the shop would still be there when he made it back to Earth? What would happen to all his books in the meantime? He'd barely even used his human identity yet, he didn't want to have to start over from scratch with a new one so soon.

And then-- Crowley appeared, slouching indecently to the rescue, and offering Aziraphale a rather larger favor than simply miracling the success of a play. Aziraphale did his best not to let on how pleased he was by the encounter, although he was fairly certain he failed. He himself was slightly worried he might actually be glowing, his delight was so strong. This-- This was something different than simply running into each other on business and discussing their jobs over drinks. This felt _personal_. The fondness he felt for Crowley deepened, a warm glow that kept his lips twitching with a suppressed grin, even after they parted ways and he made his way back to London.

He threw himself into work again after that, as the last details of the shop were hammered out and he was finally able to begin the process of stocking and furnishing it. He'd known his collection of books had gotten rather inconveniently large, but even he was a bit surprised at how quickly the shelves filled up. And there was so much _more_ that was needed beyond the shelves. A writing desk and a shop counter and a cash register; chairs and couches and cabinets; wall sconces for the gas lighting. So many_ things_, the humans had. It was almost overwhelming, the options he had in shaping this space.  
  
He'd never really bothered with decoration or furnishing before. He'd found whatever appropriate space was available and which generally suited his needs, and made do with whatever furnishings it provided. Heaven rarely had him stay anywhere long enough for it to really matter. But this-- there was something deeply satisfying in arranging the shop exactly to his tastes. Something almost indulgent in placing objects in just the right spot, angling furniture so that the space was partitioned into a series of little nooks and crannies that felt-- sheltered. Secure. It reminded him, he thought, a little of preening his wings; shifting broken or crooked feathers until everything lay smooth and comfortable. _Homey_.

He tried to remind himself that he shouldn't call it a home. It was a shop, a place of business (no matter that he had little intention of parting with his hard-won collection), a _base of operations_. Not a home. Homes were for _humans_, who lived here on Earth, and despite all the long centuries he'd spent on this planet, he was, after all, here to work. He shouldn't get attached.

(That had been the subject of several of Gabriel's lectures. _You mustn't get attached to Earthly things, Aziraphale. Angels are above such base material concerns.) _He must remember that. He was an angel, and at some point, he'd return to Heaven.

But, Aziraphale privately hoped, not anytime soon.

* * *

The day of the Grand Opening came at last, and Aziraphale found himself unaccountably nervous, flitting about the shop and fussing with books and knick-knacks, picking them up only to put them back down again in the same spot a few seconds later. He wasn't sure why; he'd spent  _weeks_ now arranging everything just so, and it wasn't that he was  _unhappy _ with how things were laid out, only that he wanted things to be  _perfect_ for the main event later this afternoon. 

(Crowley had said he might stop by. Not that the demon's opinion should  _matter_ \- Crowley didn't even read books, besides those Aziraphale showed him, but all the same, he found himself rather eager to hear what his friend- no. Companion? Certainly not. His-  _associate_ had to say about all of it.) 

He was distracted from his puttering by the chime of the bell above the shop door.  
  
“I'm afraid the shop will not be open until Friday, good people,” he called over his shoulder, “but we will be having a grand opening immediately after lunch--”

But it wasn't a human's voice who answered him. It was Gabriel.

“We're not here to buy books, Aziraphale,” the Archangel said, and Aziraphale felt his guts clench with sudden anxiety.

“Gabriel!” he said, plastering on a smile as he turned around. “What a- what a pleasant surprise.” Sandalphon was standing next to him, both of them decked out in dandy finery. The fashion suited neither of them. “Listen,” Aziraphale continued, “if it's about that business in Paris, um, it wasn't my miracle--”

Gabriel waved a hand dismissively. “I'm sure I don't know of what you speak, oh Angel of the Eastern Gate” he said, with an easy grin that utterly failed to be reassuring. “We are here with good news!”

“O-Oh?” Aziraphale stammered, before catching himself. “Oh! How lovely. What is it?”

“We're bringing you home,” Gabriel said, beaming.

“Home,” Aziraphale said, flatly.

“You're being promoted,” Sandalphon explained. “Back Upstairs.”

Aziraphale blinked. He'd heard the words clearly, but he couldn't quite seem to grasp them. He fumbled to come up with some kind of response. All his words seemed to have left him, as they so often did when Gabriel was around. “But I- I'm opening this bookshop on Friday,” he said. “We've spent ages getting everything together, and I think I can really--”

Gabriel raised his hand, cutting him off. “It's an excellent idea. The bookshop can still open- I'm sure whoever replaces you down here can use it as a base of operations.”

Aziraphale's thoughts, still whirling a mile a minute trying to catch up to the situation, screeched to a halt at that. “Use my  _bookshop?” _ he spit, unable to keep the affront out of his tone. There was a wave of- of something, welling up inside him. It might have been anger, or disgust. The thought of  _someone else_ with their fingers all over  _his books_ ...

He caught himself, reining the feeling in. Gabriel was watching him, politely puzzled, but the smile on his face was starting to falter, veering into something sharp and cold.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said slowly, carefully, as if explaining to a child. “You're being promoted. You get to _come home_. To Heaven.”

“I can't imagine why anyone would want to spend five minutes longer in this world than they had to,” Sandalphon said at his side with a sniff. He ran one finger along the spine of a book and sneered at it, as if he expected something slimy to have rubbed off on him.

Gabriel smiled again, an empty expression that didn't meet his eyes. “Aziraphale has been here for almost 6000 years,” he said, gaze never leaving the angel's. “We must applaud such devotion to duty.”

He dipped a hand into his pocket, bringing out a small box. He presented it to Aziraphale, opening it to reveal a small medal, the silver shining bright and cold despite the yellow light of the gas lamps. “You've worked hard, Aziraphale,” he said, still staring, still smiling. “And it hasn't gone unnoticed.”

“I- I don't want a medal,” Aziraphale said, uncertainly. It was hard to think with Gabriel staring at him, still smiling, _always_ smiling. It made him feel like he was being stripped down, all his flaws and weaknesses laid bare.

“That's very noble of you,” Gabriel replied, in a tone of voice that meant _you can't refuse, _and took the medal out to drape it over Aziraphale's head. There was no way he should be able to feel it through all his layers of clothing, but something inside his chest felt cold anyway.

He should be happy, he knew. Wasn't this what he wanted, some kind of recognition of his work here on Earth, instead of patronizing smiles and pats on the head whenever he delivered his reports? Instead he looked down at the medal shining on his coat and felt like he might be sick. He looked around at the walls of his shop, the shelves and shelves of books carefully collected over centuries and even more carefully arranged in their places, and thought of the endless vast white of Heaven, the open empty spaces.

There was a line of ice snaking down his spine and a lump in his throat that tasted like panic, and he shoved it down with an effort of will and the ache of long practice. Gabriel and Sandalphon were right here, waiting for his reaction. He couldn't- he couldn't let them see that weakness, that soft attachment to Earthly things they'd berated him for so many times already. He couldn't let them know how desperately he didn't want this.

He _should_ want this. A _good angel_ would want this, would _want_ to be back in Heaven, where he _belonged. _

He looked desperately around the bookshop, as if he might find a way to escape this situation, or find an answer to give to Gabriel waiting on the spine of one of his books-- and saw the one thing that could make this already awful moment even worse.

_Crowley_ . Crowley was  _there_ , standing in the doorway, right behind Gabriel and Sandalphon, a package clutched in one hand. He caught Aziraphale's eye and smiled, giving a cheerful wave, utterly oblivious to the danger he was in. Aziraphale's panic ratcheted up another notch, his useless heart pounding so hard he thought it might well beat right out of his chest.

_Oh no, oh no. _ Crowley was  _right there. _ All the Archangels had to do was turn around and see him and everything would be  _ruined_ . They'd smite Crowley for sure, and who knew if they'd only discorporate him or if they'd  _destroy him_ , and then they'd- they'd figure it out, what Aziraphale had been doing, all the things he'd been hiding, how low he'd fallen. 

His eyes flicked back to Gabriel, and he realized the Archangel was still waiting for some kind of response, looking increasingly confused and more than a little impatient. Aziraphale fumbled for something to say, the right words to give Gabriel, but he was far too distracted by Crowley's appearance, and all he could manage was a stuttered, “B-But only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley!”

Still loitering in the doorway, Crowley's expression slid from cheer to confusion. He pointed at the package and mouthed something, but Aziraphale didn't catch it, too focused on watching Gabriel's reaction.

Gabriel's smile was thin and patronizing. “I'm sure whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are,” he said, and his tone was gentle, but there was something dangerous beneath it. “Michael, perhaps.”

“I- that is, not that I doubt Michael,” Aziraphale stammered, “But, well. Crowley's been down here just as long as I have. You shouldn't underestimate him. He's brilliant, and cunning, and- and wily-”

Gabriel smirked. “It almost sounds like you like him.”

“N-no!” Aziraphale gasped, as sharp terror carved another line of ice down his spine. “I loathe him, of course. But, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent. Which he isn't, because he's a demon. And I could never respect a demon. Or like one.” The room, so cozy and pleasant before, suddenly seemed too small and almost hot. Moisture seemed to be gathering at his temples and along his palms. He reasserted control over his corporation with an effort of will and banished it, giving Gabriel another nervous smile. His eyes flickered back over to the doorway-- and Crowley was gone. Aziraphale relaxed just a fraction. _He _was safe then, at least.

Gabriel didn't seem to have noticed his discomfort. He beamed at Aziraphale and clapped him on the shoulder. “That's the attitude I like to hear. You'll be an asset back at head office, I can tell you that.”

Oh. Right. In his panic over Crowley's appearance, Aziraphale had half-forgotten. Heaven. They were taking him back Upstairs.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

“S-so...” he said, attempting levity and failing, “we're going straight back, now? Before the grand opening?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Well, soon. We're just going to stroll down to Cork Street to see my tailor. Don't worry- it shouldn't take long. Tie up whatever you need to down here, and we'll be back before you know it.”

“Oh. Yes, of- of course,” Aziraphale said, waving faintly as they turned to leave. The bell above the door rang again as it closed behind them, its welcoming tone suddenly sounding small and hollow in the empty shop.

* * *

Aziraphale wasn't sure how much time passed before the Archangels returned, though it couldn't have been more than half an hour or so. He'd moved over to his desk to begin putting his papers in order, and had found himself picking up one of his very favorite volumes of poetry instead. He stared at it, holding it as if to tuck it into his pocket, when the full weight of the situation crashed down upon him.

He couldn't bring any of it. There was no use for material objects in Heaven.

He'd lose it, all of it. His entire collection. The fate he'd been trying to avoid in opening this place, keeping his books safe and close by, would happen after all. Even if Heaven stationed another angel here, none of them would understand what the books meant, or how to care for them, if they even bothered to pay them any attention. The way Sandalphon had sneered at the shop, had touched the books with disgust-- that was how most of the angels felt about the Earth, he knew. Base matter, something to be endured. Not enjoyed. Not _cherished._ Just a holding pattern for atoms until they were inevitably rearranged into something else.

It had always been a failing of his, he knew. He had always cared too much, from that very first day in the garden when he'd given away his sword. He had never been able to shake the joy and delight he found in the humans and all their wonderful creations, no matter how many lectures and reprimands Heaven put him through. He wished he could make them understand, to consider humans more than cosmic chess pieces in their fight against Hell. To see that the humans, and the things that they made, were a marvel worth treasuring.

Wasn't that their purpose? Wasn't that what they had been made for, to guard and guide Her creations? He wanted to do the right thing, he really did. He wanted to fulfill his purpose, to have Heaven recognize how hard he'd worked to serve Her.

Now Heaven had granted his wish at last, and yet none of it felt _right_. The dissonance irritated him, like a feather twisted out of place. Unease shivered through him, leaving him feeling chilled and tired.

Still. There was nothing he could do. He was a soldier of Heaven, and he must go where he was ordered.

The bell over the door rang again, and Aziraphale set the book down, steeling himself to face his fate. But instead of the bright, empty smile from Gabriel he expected, the Archangel looked almost worried.

“Aziraphale!” he said heartily. “Terribly sorry, but there's been a change of plans. We'll need you to stay here on Earth after all.”

“I- What?” he stammered. He felt rather like the world had spun completely on its axis once already today, and was now spinning again in the opposite direction, leaving him dizzy and breathless. Beneath his ribs, there was a small, flickering light that might be relief.

“Very unfortunate, I know,” the Archangel said. “We hate to ask even more of you, of course, but we need you here. In your bookstop. Battling evil.”

Baffled, Aziraphale asked, “So, I'm.. not going anywhere?”

“I'm afraid not,” Gabriel confirmed, pulling a grimace that looked almost genuine. “Keep the medal. We'll be on our way.”

“Carry on battling!” Sandalphon said, gold tooth glinting as he gave Aziraphale a playful punch on the arm. Aziraphale tried not to wince.

“What in Heaven's name was _that_ all about?” he wondered, alone in the shop once again.

* * *

Despite everything, there was still a grand opening to host that afternoon, although Aziraphale found his heart was no longer quite in it. The threat of losing his books hung over him like a pall, shrouding the whole affair with a gloomy melancholy. Though he smiled at his guests and cheerfully accepted their congratulations and well-wishes, the words felt hollow, mere empty formalities. He couldn't even bring himself to indulge in any of the carefully chosen refreshments, either, though they were all favorites; when he tried, the taste turned to ash in his mouth. Gabriel's medal, set aside on his desk, kept catching his eye, a silent reminder every time it glinted.

The whole affair left him feeling distant and numb; what he imagined the humans might describe as “sleepwalking,” and he was thoroughly miserable by the time his guests departed. The weather seemed to agree with his mood; a heavy drizzle had started halfway through the afternoon, smothering the streets in a thick, dense fog.

In an effort to settle his nerves, Aziraphale made himself a pot of tea and collected a few of his favorite books before settling into one of the plusher armchairs he kept for just such an occasion. Surely an afternoon of quiet reading would set him to rights.

It wasn't until hours later, when he went to turn a page and realized that he'd read it four times already without taking in any of it, that he was forced to admit his usual comforts weren't working. He couldn't seem to focus; the familiar, soothing words drowned out by a storm of thoughts that refused to calm. He kept thinking about Heaven. Going back. His _promotion. _What would they even have had him doing there? What had he done, before Eden? Military drills, mostly, he thought. Sword practice. It all felt rather vague and hard to recall, now. Preparing for the Great War. Armageddon. They still would be, he supposed. Was that what they wanted him for? Leading his platoon again?

He imagined centuries of running the same drills, over and over again, in the timeless white blank of Heaven, and the idea curdled the taste of tea in his mouth. He set it aside, feeling sick, and guilty and ashamed at being so. What was _wrong_ with him, that this prospect bothered him so deeply? He'd known that Heaven would recall him eventually. He'd spent an eternity before time began as Heaven's soldier; he'd followed Heaven's orders for nearly six thousand years, deploying wherever on Earth he was needed. Why was being sent back Upstairs now any different?

A sharp rap on the door shook him from his thoughts, and he realized with a glance at the clock that it was time for the evening post. He collected his mail from the boy outside and tipped him, before glancing down at the pile of cards and envelopes in his hands.

Right on top was a calling card, the note written in a familiar, scratchy hand:

_Rules, 35 Maiden Lane, 7:30 -C_

Crowley.

He felt a wave of relief, that the demon hadn't run afoul of Gabriel and Sandalphon, and a warm fondness that thawed a bit of the fog that had haunted him since the Archangels' visit. It was quickly followed by a sharp spike of worry, however. Certainly, the Archangels had left, but what if they were still observing him? It would be foolishness to visit with Crowley so soon, especially after such a close call just a few hours earlier.

He sat down at his desk to write a note deferring their meeting to another day... and froze with the quill hovering above the paper. The thought of sitting up all night reading, as he usually did, suddenly felt unbearably lonely. He- he _needed_ that warmth he felt during their long conversations, that easy camaraderie and understanding. And, well- Crowley had been _right there_, earlier, and neither of the Archangels had noticed anything. Surely they had more important matters to attend to than checking up on the angel they'd already visited that day. Surely a few hours of conversation over dinner wouldn't hurt.

(and the idea of dining with Crowley did sound _so_ appealing)

He set the quill aside, and went to dress for dinner.

* * *

The restaurant was, upon arrival, exactly the sort of establishment Aziraphale favored. Richly appointed but small enough to be intimate, with curved booths upholstered in lush red velvet. An oil lamp on each table ensured comfortable lighting for the diners, while rendering the rest of the room in cozy dimness. It reminded Aziraphale very much of how he had arranged his shop: warm, comfortable, homey.

Crowley was already waiting for him as the waiter ushered him to his seat, dark glasses glinting in the lamplight and a wry smile hiding at the corner of his lips. A bottle of champagne was already on the table, and he began pouring as Aziraphale sat down, handing the angel the first glass before offering his own.  
  
“Cheers,” he toasted. “To your grand opening.”

“Cheers,” Aziraphale agreed.

“How was the party?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Aziraphale said. “It would have been rather better if I hadn't been so terribly disconcerted by those... unexpected visitors earlier in the afternoon.”

“Couple of bastard Archangels, you mean?”  
  
“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale scolded, but he didn't correct the assessment. “Yes, well. It quite upset all my plans, you know. They wanted me to return with them Upstairs right away, and then they left, and when they came back they'd changed their minds completely, and said I should stay after all. It left me _entirely_ out of sorts, all afternoon.”

Crowley made a _hmm_ of acknowledgment, taking a long drink of his champagne before pouring himself another glass, looking at Aziraphale, his expression inscrutable. “Thought you'd be pleased,” he said, too-casually. “Promotion and all that.”

“I-” Aziraphale paused, wholly unable to articulate any of the knot of emotions he'd been trying and failing to untangle all afternoon. “I certainly appreciate my efforts being _acknowledged_, of course,” he said at last. “It's simply that it was all so terribly _sudden_. I wasn't prepared.” He sighed. “And I still don't understand why they changed their decision so _abruptly_-”

Crowley coughed. “Yes. Ah. I, uh, may have put my thumb on the scale a bit, there,” he muttered.

Aziraphale stared at him, stunned. “What?”

“Well, you saw me there, in the shop. I overheard a bit, and I might have, you know, followed after them when they left. Lurked around the tailor's a bit. Put on a bit of a pantomime. Gone on about how great things would be for Hell, now you were going to be out of the way. …right beneath the window where a certain Archangel might hear it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, suddenly speechless. “I-” There was a great well of feeling bubbling up in his chest, but he was not certain at all what it was he should call it. This wasn't like the rescue in the Bastille, when Aziraphale had been in physical danger. This was a rescue of an entirely different sort, one _Aziraphale_ had not even really understood to be needed, and Crowley had done it all on his own, unasked. 

Crowley seemed to understand what he was feeling, though, even if Aziraphale didn't have the words.

“_Don't_ say it, angel,” Crowley he muttered, holding up a hand. “Remember what I said about my lot and rude notes.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale murmured softly. “I appreciate it, all the same.” The warmth in his chest rose and spread, filling him up, and he took another sip of champagne to hide his smile.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled, leaning back into his usual slouch. “Couldn't have them sending _Michael_ down here after me, could I? Never get anything done with _that_ wanker flitting about.”  
  
“As dedicated to sloth as ever, I see.” 

Crowley smirked. “That's me. Cunning and wily-- and was it brilliant, too?”

Aziraphale tutted in mock disapproval. “And prideful, obviously. Treacherous serpent.”

Crowley peered over his glasses just enough to let Aziraphale see his wink. “You know it.”

The conversation moved on after that, to their more usual fare; a bit of business, and then, as the alcohol flowed, less official topics: Aziraphale discussed his plans for the bookshop's opening day, and some of the particularly interesting editions he'd recently acquired, Crowley on some of the places he'd traveled, new inventions the humans had come up with. The idle chatter of two old friends catching up.

The restaurant itself was new, but the dinner was exquisite-- fresh oysters, (nearly as good as the ones they'd had in Rome, so long ago); white soup, a crown of roasted ducks with artichokes and French beans, battalia pie, and for dessert, an apple crumble with lemon and raisins and a glass of syllabub. Crowley, as usual, ate little, but had a bite here and there to satisfy Aziraphale, and seemed to enjoy the angel's gushing over the flavors. It was another reminder of just how well Crowley knew him; that he could pick a restaurant so perfectly suited to Aziraphale's tastes, for all that he barely bothered with food himself.

By the end of the meal, Aziraphale found himself thoroughly warmed, inside and out. Perhaps it was simply the glow of good wine and excellent food, but the fog of worry and guilt that had wrapped around him when Gabriel had arrived seemed to have finally dissipated. 

He would have lost this, he realized as they left the restaurant, if not for Crowley's quick thinking. Not just the food, in all its delicious variety and flavor, not just his shop and all his books, but the company. _Crowley_. If he'd been recalled back to Heaven, it might have been centuries before he returned to Earth. Possibly longer. And even if he'd returned...he likely wouldn't have been able to see Crowley. Perhaps not ever again. For all that Heaven's tendency to overlook Earthly matters often left Aziraphale frustrated, it did provide the two of them with a certain leeway. A bit of wiggle room.

It was, Aziraphale suddenly understood, not something he was willing to give up, any more than he could part with his books. Which meant-

He was interrupted by Crowley, who offered the package he'd been carrying earlier. Aziraphale realized with a start that they had reached the door of his shop.

“Here. Almost forgot- these are for you. Bit of a house-warming present. Shop-warming present. Whatever. Meant to give them to you earlier, but, well. Got interrupted, obviously.”

Aziraphale unwrapped it carefully, to find a package of chocolates, and a bottle of wine – both favorites of his, neither of them easy to acquire. He thought again of Crowley's appearance in the Bastille, and his unexpected help earlier that day-- and thought he understood a number of things that neither of them were saying.  
  
“You shouldn't have,” he said, and meant _thank you_.  
  
“I know,” Crowley replied, and meant _be safe._

“Of course. Well. It was a lovely dinner.” Aziraphale said, his smile soft and small. “Good night, Crowley.”

“Anytime, Angel,” he replied, and vanished into the night with a tip of his hat.

Inside, Aziraphale put the kettle on, and when he sat down in his armchair to begin his nightly reading, he felt-- content. No, it was more than that. A sense of warmth, and _rightness_, almost similar to the soft glow of his Grace, filling him up. The sense of being exactly where he was meant to be, doing exactly as he was meant to do. _Belonging_.

Which was a terribly inappropriate thing to be feeling, sitting as he was on Earth, having narrowly escaped a recall to Heaven. And yet it was a truth.

Crowley felt it too, he was certain. The demon-- his _friend_\-- knew him so well. It was why he'd intervened with the Archangels earlier in the day, why he knew to invite Aziraphale to dinner afterwards. It was terribly dangerous, this truth, but then, he supposed, there wasn't really any other kind. He would simply have to live with it, and muddle along somehow.

Maybe Crowley would have some ideas. He really _was_ terribly clever, when he put his mind to it. And he had been so thoughtful lately-- perhaps Aziraphale could find some way to repay that favor.

Humming softly, he set his tea down, and began to read.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was a huge pain and took forever to come together, as it kept trying to go off on historical and emotional tangents and I had to rein it back in. There was originally going to be a lot more Aziraphale angst in here, dithering over his relationship with Crowley, but that didn't quite work either. In the end, I don't know if this is quite the thing I originally planned, but it's something. 
> 
> Most of the dialogue from the 1800 Bookshop Opening scene is taken directly from the script book, so credit to Neil Gaiman for that bit. I just remixed it. 
> 
> I did a bunch of historical research for this one and got to use almost none of it, so here's some fun notes:
> 
> -837 AD - possibly the closest approach of Halley's Comet, taking up a full 60 degrees of the night sky
> 
> -Wannian Li/The Ten Thousand Year Calendar - an astronomical almanac gifted to Kublai Khan by a Persian astronomer in 1267. Apparently still exists as an astrology guide.
> 
> -Rules restaurant: established in 1798, London's oldest restaurant. Specializes in “game cookery, oysters, pies, and puddings.” I know the Ritz is Their Place but look this one up, it's got serious Ineffable Husbands vibes.
> 
> -battalia pie: a game (or sometimes fish) pie with lots of little “blessed” pieces (organ meats), flavored with spices + lemon. 
> 
> -syllabub: cider or wine mixed with nutmeg, cream, and milk. It seems a very Aziraphale sort of drink. Chocolate was available in 1800 but tended to be quite bitter until better processing was invented after 1815, so I imagine Aziraphale picks up his cocoa habit a bit later on.
> 
> I love hearing what people think, so please drop me a line in the comments if you liked this! Or just come scream with me about these two idiots and their feelings. Either way. :3


End file.
